Empire
by Curbstompd
Summary: A hundred years in the future, Italy has eclipsed the legend of his grandfather. He is the Italian Empire now, and he remembers his swift and terrible rise to greatness. Dark!Italy. Rated T for blood and Italy's broken, twisted mind.
1. Remembering

All right; I just had to write this. I love reading Evil!Italy stories, because they're so opposite to his personality. I hope you enjoy it.

They all bowed before him. Their cries for mercy gave him strength, and their insignificant people were the source of all his power. They had paid for laughing at him, for calling him weak. Oh, had they ever.

He flicked his silver cigarette lighter, allowing a small flame to blossom in front of his face. Once his cigarette was lit, he closed the lighter's metal cap and inhaled deeply. He smiled.

American tobacco was the best. Exported from his newest colony. It had been so much fun to watch the once-great America, Alfred F. Jones, reduced to a quivering wreck beneath his military boots. Jones had put up a remarkably good fight, and Italy, the new conqueror, the new empire, was forced to resort to... drastic measures.

The corners of the Italy's mouth turned up in a cruel smirk. It had been so much fun to watch his enemy's cities burn from the thousands of firebombs. It had made him tingle with excitement when he watched the mushroom cloud rise over the city of Washington, DC.

Feliciano chuckled, blowing a ring of smoke. The glow from the cigarette illuminated the paper before him, an enormous map of Europe. He stubbed his cigarette out and reached for the crystal glass on his desk. He took a sip.

Ah, French champagne. How he adored the stuff. It had not been hard to get it. Italy chuckled lightly to himself, remembering his first victory. The French defenses had been child's play; by the time he was done, Francis Bonnefoy was on his knees, begging for clemency. As his armies closed on Paris, Italy had granted some semblance of mercy. France, the nation and the person, belonged to him, and to his empire.

As Italy put down his glass of champagne, there was a knock at the door. "Come in."

Ivan Braginsky entered, his amethyst eyes downcast and full of fear. Italy smiled. "Have a seat, Ivan." Ivan no longer went by the name of Russia. Not since Italy's famed March on Moscow. To be truthful, Italy had been a bit apprehensive when leading the attack. France, Germany, Japan, and China had all tried and failed to end the largest nation in the world.

But Italy had not failed. He had watched with elation as his colossal tanks swept through the steppes of Russia, driving all resistance before them. He had clapped with delight as Ivan, his face scarred and tears forming in his eyes, had raised the white flag above the ruined Kremlin.

"M-mr. Italy," Braginsky quavered. "I-I have th-the f-food you r-requested."

Italy nodded. "I hope the pasta will be to my liking today, Ivan. I don't want to have to introduce your head to your own lead pipe again."

Ivan trembled in terror and handed over the steaming bowl of linguine and marinara. Italy took a bite, savoring the tomato sauce and spices. After a few minutes of slow chewing, he put down the spoon and stared blankly at Ivan. The former nation stood frozen, awaiting Italy's verdict.

"Congratulations, Ivan. It seems that you have learned to cook pasta. You may go."

Ivan let out a breath he didn't notice that he had been holding. He bowed deeply and shuffled from Italy's study.

Italy smiled, enjoying his pasta.

He looked up suddenly as one of his military jets flew over the city of Venice. He smiled and remembered listening to the thousands of jets as they flew towards London.

He had watched from the deck of his flagship as the British Isles were bombarded by shells and bombs, in an attack ten times worse than the Blitz ever was. London, Manchester, Cornwall, Glasgow, and Edinburgh were hit the hardest.

Upon landfall, Italy had led his soldiers north towards the ruined capital. They had found England, alias Arthur Kirkland, kneeling in Westminster Abbey. The invasion had been on Prince Henry's coronation day, and the personification of England had held the broken and twisted body of the would-be king in his arms.

"_Pathetic,"_ Italy had spat. "_The once-great British Empire, reduced to hugging a dead teenager."_

England hadn't budged. Instead, he said, "_Even if you kill me, Feliciano, you won't last forever. You will fall eventually, just like your grandfather."_

Italy had scowled. "_Never call me by that name, dog. You are wrong; my empire has conquered more territory in less time than Rome ever did."_

England had chuckled, and then coughed up a gob of blood. "_You'll see, little man. You'll never be able to crush the spirit of humanity, Feli-"_

Scarlet blood had coated the altar as Italy pulled the trigger on his powerful gun. Arthur Kirkland's body was thrown into a ditch with the millions of others who had died in the bombings and the invasion. And Italy had taken the British Isles as his own.

Italy snapped back to the present, a smile on his face from the memory. He opened the wide windows of his mansion and walked out onto the balcony. The night air was cool on his face, and it wiped away traces of the headache. He had stood here, on this very balcony, and announced the Italian Empire's victories across Europe.

Switzerland.

Liechtenstein.

Austria.

Hungary.

Greece.

The Balkans.

The Baltics.

Africa.

The Nordics.

The list went on and on and on. From the plains of Midwestern America to the mountains of Siberia, from the savannah of Africa to the tundra of Norway, the crump-crump-crump of Italian military boots could be heard. And the personifications had been given a choice: die or be enslaved. Most chose eternal servitude in the Imperial military.

Italy stood astride the earth like a colossus, and only a few stubborn nations (China, Mexico, Japan, and India) held out against his armies.

He remembered the last victory, the one over his best friend. Germany, for all his strength and power, had been forced to retreat to Berlin when the Italian bombers flew overhead, and Italian tanks began to cross the Rhine.

Germany and his brother Prussia had been running from the Italians for ages, changing direction as quickly as they could. Wherever they went, one of Italy's soldiers had appeared. Sometimes it was Ivan, wielding an Italian-made sink pipe. Other times it was Vash, firing an Italian assault rifle. And other times it had been Elizabeta, swinging an Italian frying pan.

The German brothers had been cornered underneath the Brandenburg Gate, the last monument in Europe not flying an Italian tricolor. Gilbert had fallen to his knees from exhaustion and pain, but Germany had stood tall, bleeding from six bullet wounds and a knife slash from Belarus.

Italy, the new ruler of the world, had slowly approached. He had appraised Germany with an almost sympathetic stare, and shook his head. _"You know, it didn't have to end this way."_

Germany had stared back with nothing but sadness and pain in his eyes. _"Yes it did,"_ he'd growled. _"I learned from my mistakes. I learned not to hurt others for the sake of greed and power. I guess I never taught you that."_

Italy had merely sneered. _"I am no longer the weak, spineless nation I once was. Now, I am an empire, an empire that has conquered more territory in a shorter amount of time than any other in history."_

Germany had glared at him. _"You still don't get it, do you? An empire can never conquer the world! You can prance about in your military uniform all you like, but no matter what, there will always be someone willing to resist! I know you, Felici-"_

"_Kill him!"_

The soldiers had opened fire. Spent casings had clattered to the cobblestones like rain, mixed with the blood of Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt. Ludwig stood standing the entire time, jerking with every bullet hit. Then he had swayed, toppling forwards. Italy had shaken his head.

"_Such a waste."_ And then he'd turned on his heel and walked away from the two corpses.

Italy turned away from the balcony, shutting the death of Ludwig out of his mind. He had to get a grip on himself and stop reminiscing, as no war could be won by memories alone. He slid the curtains closed and went back to his map of Asia. He slid another American cigarette from his stash and lit up, the glow casting some light onto his face. It was a face that hid the twisted, broken, and shattered mind of Feliciano Vargas.

The Italian Empire laid his hands on his desk and removed the still-burning cigarette from his mouth. "I think it's time to end this war," he said to no-one in particular. A small smile crept across his mouth. He lowered his cigarette, burning a hole straight through a city on the map.

Tokyo was next.


	2. Ice Pick

Japan, alias Kiku Honda, sat calmly in his garden.

_They're coming for you,_ China's voice whispered in his head. _A whole bunch of aircraft just passed over Mongolia and are heading straight for you._

Japan closed his eyes. _Arigato_, he replied. He picked a chrysanthemum from his beautiful garden and sniffed it absentmindedly.

"Sentimental as ever, si?"

Japan's hand flew to his katana at the familiar voice. Instantly, he was on his feet, shrugging off his military jacket.

Italy stood a mere ten feet from him. Behind him, thirty Imperial Guards stood at attention, rifles raised and ready to fire.

"I knew you'd be sniffing your stupid little flowers. Kiku means Chrysanthemum in Japanese, right?"

Japan said nothing, but faced the guns of the Imperial Italian Military without a flicker of fear on his face.

Italy raised an annoyed eyebrow. "Really. It's rude to ignore your guests. And here I was thinking that you were supposed to be the polite, accommodating type, Kiku."

"Don't call me Kiku."

Italy chuckled. "But Kiku, it's your name. You're not Japan anymore."

Japan growled and drew his sword, the blade hissing from its scabbard almost silently.

Italy put a hand on the hilt of his ceremonial sabre. "Getting mad?" He drew it in a single fluid motion. A dozen metallic clicks signaled that the Imperial soldiers were preparing to fire, but Italy held up a fist.

"No. I haven't crushed a nation myself in, what, three months? I miss the feeling."

Italy and Japan paced like tigers, glaring daggers at each other.

"So, former ally," Italy smirked, "You're going to be brave and fight? I'm surprised."

Japan growled. "Murdering scum. I will fight you till the end, like I know the others did."

"To the end?" Italy laughed darkly. "All of the countries I ended were on their knees like weaklings," he lied. "Even the great Germany was crying and sniveling when I shot him full of-"

Japan struck, dancing forward with unnatural speed and bringing his katana forward in a hissing arc.

Italy raised his sabre and the two blades met with a clang.

"Not bad, old friend," Italy said. He pushed forward against Japan, his vastly superior strength slowly pushing back the old nation. Japan, knowing this, spun away and swung again at Italy's head. Italy blocked the strike, and counterattacked.

For twenty minutes, both nations danced and twirled around each other, their blades ringing out in the spring air. Italy's immense strength and power were counterbalanced by Japan's speed and agility, and as the two nations lunged and parried and feinted, the watching Imperial Guards wondered who would win.

Finally, Italy and Japan spun away from each other. Japan was bleeding from multiple slash wounds, his shirt was torn, and his hair was disheveled. Italy, on the other hand, had contrived to remain spotless. Every single one of his medals were in place on his chest, his hair was exactly the same, and he wasn't even breathing hard.

He held up an arm, and Japan saw the last of the gashes that he had made on Italy's arms and torso disappear. The ripped strand of cloth mended itself over the thin white scar.

"You can't win, old man. Any wounds you give me will just heal. For every one of my soldiers that falls, a thousand more will take their place. Just give up."

Japan scowled. "After what you did to America? To Germany? To Romano, your own brother?"

Italy shrugged. "An empire only has room for one at its head." he raised his sword. "But if you won't give in, I guess I'll have to kill you." He leaped forward, bringing his sabre down. Japan did the same, and the two passed each other as their blades met. Italy landed on his feet, as did Japan. Italy stood and turned around.

"Thanks for playing," he said cheerfully.

Japan looked down in shock at the ice pick sticking out of his chest. He fell to his knees, fighting to stay conscious.

"Ah well. Bested by a barbaric Mafia trick." He pulled the pick out of his own chest and laid it down beside him. "Italy, I know you're still in there somewhere, buried under that monstrosity you call the Italian Empire. But I suppose I won't live to see you beak free."

With that, the old warrior fell sideways as his heart stopped. And at the same time, a mushroom cloud rose over Japan for the third and final time as an Italian hoverbomber maneuvered away from the now-destroyed city of Tokyo.

Japan had fallen.

**And so concludes Chapter 2. I hope you guys like it. I was going to leave this as a oneshot, but I decided that I like writing Dark!Italy, so I'll try to make it a multi. **

**For anyone interested, the ice pick was a common weapon used by the Mafia that substituted for a knife.**

**I promise, next update I'll go more into the death of Romano.**


	3. Fratello

Italy remembered. He remembered the trial, every long, boring bit of it. He remembered ascending to the judge's seat, watching the handpicked military jury file into the jury box.

…...

"_Lovino Vargas,"_ Italy said. _"You have been accused of crimes against the state. What says the jury?"_

As one, the stone-faced Italian soldiers stood up and uttered one word.

"_C__olpevole."_

Lovino, the former South Italy, made no noise of fear or anger. He simply glared at his brother. Italy glared back.

"_Lovino Vargas, you have been found guilty of crimes against the state and of the incitement of rebellion. In accordance with Decree Sixty-Four of the Imperial Constitution, you are sentenced to death by firing squad. Sentence to be carried out on July 9th, 5 days from now. Does the defense have anything else to say?"_

Lovino's lawyer stood and started to say _"No, your honor-"_ but Lovino cut him off with a hand.

He stood and walked towards the judge's booth, glaring daggers at his brother. The Imperial Guards rushed forward to stop him, but Italy raised a hand to stay them. In spite of himself, he was interested in what his brother had to say.

Lovino stopped right in front of the booth, pure hatred in his eyes.

"_This isn't over, Veneziano. Oh, you can hand me and the others over to the executioner, but in time, the disgusted and harried people will bring you to book and drag you alive through the dirt."_

Italy scowled. _"Take him away."_

…...

Italy himself had attended the mass execution of those involved in the June 9th plot on his life. As the first nation in history to be his own leader, he had thought it was right.

He had watched from a safe distance as the prisoners were called from the cells. Despite the lateness of the night, the courtyard was warm, heated by the Mediterranean climate.

The firing squad had stood at attention, rifles ready on their shoulders and faces expressionless.

The line of prisoners, dressed in orange prison jumpsuits, filed upstairs under the watchful eye of a dozen Guards. They sullenly took their places against a nearby wall, waiting to be called.

A lieutenant had stepped forward and called out: _"Edelstein, Roderich."_

A pair of Guards had grabbed Austria's arms and frog-marched him forward. The pianist was shaking slightly from nerves, but he made no move to resist and no sound of anguish.

The guards lined him up against the wall.

"_Ready!" _shouted the lieutenant.

"_Aim!"_

"_Fire!"_

BANG.

Austria toppled. A pair of guards had unceremoniously dragged his body away, leaving red streaks in the dirt.

"_Williams, Matthew."_ Canada held onto his polar bear until the end.

BANG.

"_Laurinatis, Toris."_

BANG.

"_Karpusi, Heracles."_

BANG.

"_Carreido, Antonio."_

BANG.

For twenty minutes, the firing squad worked through the prisoners until there was one left.

"_Vargas, Lovino."_

Romano stood tall and proud, scowling at everything and everyone. If not for the starvation that was obvious through his sunken cheeks and emaciated body, he seemed almost like his old self.

"_Ready!"_

He glared at the soldiers.

"_Aim!"_

Romano had opened his mouth and yelled, _"You will fall, Veneziano! You! Will!-"_

"_Fire!"_

BANG!

…...

Italy stood over his brother's grave. Technically, it was the grave of two hundred other dissenters, but this mass grave actually meant something to Feliciano. He took a sip from the wine bottle he held in his hands. This clearing with the unmarked cross was where he always came after a victory, in this case over Japan. He liked to tell his war stories, and pretend that it was his fratello in front of him and not a pair of crossed sticks.

"I know you'd be proud, Fratello. I used your technique, the ice pick trick. Thank you again for traching me that."

Italy thought for a second, and then walked over to a nearby patch of flowers. He picked one and laid it at the base of the cross.

"Rest in peace, Fratello."

He turned and walked back to his car. Vash, formerly Switzerland, sat in the drivers' seat.

"M-Mr. Italy? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Vash. Now get to the Imperial Palace. I need to make my victory speech."

As the car pulled back onto the road, Italy began thinking about what he would wear when he addressed the Imperial citizens. And, within a few minutes, all traces of his brother were wiped from his mind.

…...

**Alright, so I promised I'd go into the death of Romano. Please don't kill me for killing him.**

**If anyone's wondering, the quote from the trial was one said by Erwin von Witzleben, one of the conspirators in the plot on Hitler's life, during his trial. I thought it fit Romano so well.**


End file.
